


The Bad Bridesmaid

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: unconventionalcourtship, M/M, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, POV Mycroft Holmes, Unconventional Courtship Generator, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 14:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11876559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "My wedding is ruined and my marriage is going to fail. And it’s all your fault!"As a Geneva-based political consultant, Mycroft Holmes has it all: influence, money, success, a sleek and toned body and a string of sexy lovers. He's almost forgotten his previous self: Mikey Holmes, a plain and pudgy boy, later an awkward and clumsy teenager. Until a wedding invitation arrives requesting (demanding!) his presence as chief bridesmaid at his younger brother Sherlock's upcoming nuptials.Mycroft's barely been back in England before he's accidentally injured the groom and been caught in a compromising position with his future brother-in-law's best man!With the wedding of the year about to be doomed, Mycroft has no time to waste – especially with sexy detective and best man Greg Lestrade on hand to help...





	The Bad Bridesmaid

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2017 Unconventional Courtship challenge. Thanks to Misbegotten and Celli for cheerleading with great enthusiasm. Thanks to Tehomet for beta-reading and Britpicking.
> 
> Summary adjusted from Portia Macintosh's "Bad Bridesmaid".

"My wedding is ruined," Sherlock yells, throwing an arm wide and gesturing at the unmistakable chaos behind them, "and my marriage is going to fail. And it’s all your fault!"

"In all fairness--" Mycroft says but Sherlock doesn't let him finish.

"If I knew you were going to destroy everything," he hisses, water running down his face and flattening his dark hair against his head, "I wouldn't have invited you at all!"

Mycroft frowns at the scene around them: the wedding tables set with linen tablecloths, the floral centrepieces of irises and violets, the constant rain from the fire sprinklers going off around them. If he'd known this was how it would turn out, he wouldn't have accepted the invitation.

***

The invitation is surprisingly tasteful. Thick cream cardstock, use of a non-standard font, a gold border with corners made of overlapping initials (SH and JW). It all suggested professional printing, far more expensive than their parents would deem necessary. More expensive than a man as essentially practical as John Watson would favour. That meant it was Sherlock's choice.

Sherlock scribbles notes down on whatever he has to hand: newspapers, receipts, wallpaper. Sherlock prefers texting and emailing, and derides physical post as an outdated mode of communication.

When Sherlock mentioned the engagement last Christmas, Mycroft assumed it would be a simple, quiet event: a quick trip to the town hall to sign the paperwork, maybe a simple meal to celebrate. Nothing that John would consider too expensive or unnecessarily extravagant. Something that Sherlock would somehow squeeze between cases and maybe plan when he was drowning in tedious boredom.

But Sherlock has chosen laser-cut filigree edges and deep purple envelopes. Mycroft knew Sherlock cared for John but for the first time, he realizes that his impetuous little brother is head-over-heels in love.

Of course, he's still Sherlock. The invitation may say "William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson request the honour of your presence" but Sherlock's carefully added in a line (written by hand with a fountain pen, but so closely mimicking the font most people wouldn't know it had been altered) to specify "as chief bridesmaid".

When Mycroft steps into a conference room in Geneva, people swallow or look down, they fiddle with their phones and try to hide their fear. If only his little brother could be so easily intimidated, Mycroft thinks as he pulls out his phone.

"I will not be your bridesmaid," Mycroft says and Sherlock, immature fool that he is, snorts.

Instead of apologising like a reasonable adult, he says, "This makes you the fifth person to RSVP, you know."

Mycroft frowns. He is just competitive enough to be annoyed by that rank. "International postage."

"But you're coming?"

"Of course," Mycroft says quickly. That was never in question. "But as there is no bride, I will not be a bridesmaid."

"John's already asked the groomsmen," Sherlock says seriously. "Molly would either hurt me or cry if I made her be a groomsman, and Mrs Hudson couldn't pull off a suit. So it's either bridesmaid or you can't be involved in the wedding party."

"Have I ever objected to being left out of a party?" Mycroft asks. It's a rhetorical question that Sherlock ignores.

***

Mycroft likes Geneva. He likes the cool, crisp air on his morning walks, the inspiring combination of sleek modern buildings and exquisite traditional architecture. He likes the neat, orderly feel of the place, ticking along like clockwork. He likes the sound of different languages spoken around him, the sheer number of international workers trying to communicate constructively. Whether it's the United Nations, the World Trade Organization, the World Health Organisation or the World Economic Forum, there is always an attempt to improve the world everyone lives in. There is always a new challenge.

He has slowly developed a reputation as someone who can broker compromises, who can get action and agreement when items have stalled in committees. He is respected and sometimes feared, and Mycroft likes that too. There are a few nicknames whispered behind his back, the Ice Man or _Requin_ , and he even likes those. (Sharks and ice: cold and deadly; too smooth and too sleek to be trusted.)

He especially likes Geneva when he talks to his parents. It's easier to listen to their stories about the village fair when he's in another country, reading the newspaper with a hot cup of tea beside him.

"Really?" he asks when his mother starts discussing, in detail, Mrs Henderson's dry lemon sponge and how it still managed to win second place. She goes on to mention the church roof, and how long the repairs are taking and will they be finished before the winter brings rain, and Mycroft says, "We can only hope. "

He's hardly needed for these conversations but if he doesn't call, he'll get told off at Christmas. He mostly reads and tunes out as much as he can.

After the church roof, his father talks about the new sounds their car is making (split rear axle would be Mycroft's guess, but his father never believes him when he guesses) until his mother interrupts to ask, "Mikey, you sent your measurements to Sherlock, right?"

And Mycroft says, "Hmm," as if he's agreeing that the cottage windows should be replaced (they only need the sash weights readjusted, really) and then realises what Mummy asked. "My measurements?"

"Or, oh. Where are you getting your suits made, these days? Maybe Sherlock went there."

"Saville Row," Mycroft replies because he does enjoy the classics. "Why would Sherlock need--" He stops as he remembers, oh, yes, the wedding. That must be coming up soon. He's been juggling a few extra projects lately, been a little busier than usual. He should remember to check tomorrow when the wedding actually is because he was quite sure it was the 22nd, but that would be...

"Mycroft Abernathy Holmes," his mother says sternly. Curse her ability to always know when her sons are lying or feeling guilty. "Did you forget your brother is getting married next week?"

"It's nine days away," Mycroft says primly. He had forgotten but he has been busy. First thing tomorrow, he'll need to book a flight. And accommodation. He should organise wedding gifts, too. "I'll be there next week."

His mother tuts at him, and it still takes another half hour before she gets off the phone. The first thing he does is call Sherlock, who ignores the call.

Mycroft texts instead: 'Suits for wedding party organised? MH'

'Obviously. SH'

***

The next morning, Anthea's already waiting in his office when he gets in. She's reading emails on her phone, lounging back in the chair with her long, slender legs crossed at the knee. Anthea is one of the most brilliant people Mycroft has ever met: she's smart, she's observant, she can juggle the details of his calendar while comprehending the bigger picture. Yet most of the men Mycroft works with would describe her in physical terms -- raven-dark hair, plump red lips, doe eyes and curvaceous figure -- and not see any further. They might, if pushed, acknowledge that she was clever enough for a secretary.

Mycroft's secretly sure that's why Anthea keeps working for him. Because she knows that he considers her good looks one of her least valuable assets.

"Good morning," Mycroft says, stripping off his coat. "I need to book a flight."

"Geneva to London. Departing at 4 pm tomorrow," Anthea says, reading from her phone. "I booked it a month ago."

"And accommodation?" He may love his brother but Mycroft is not willing to stay in Sherlock's flat, finding body parts in the fridge and notes stabbed to the mantelpiece.

"I booked the Hyatt Regency for ten days until the return flight. Of course, accommodation is provided at the wedding venue for the night before and the wedding night, but best to have a contingency."

"And did you, by any chance," Mycroft asks gently, "send my measurements to my brother?"

"Three weeks ago," Anthea says, scrolling through something on her screen. "You were preparing scenarios for the cholera outbreak in Uganda."

That actually explains a lot. He doubts he got more than ten hours sleep that week. "That is above and beyond your job's requirements."

Anthea glances up, her expression calm and controlled. "What are you saying, sir?" she asks carefully.

"Let me rephrase. That is far more than should be expected of your role, but thank you. I appreciate it deeply."

***

At one o'clock, Anthea forces him home to pack. Well, she mentions packing and then reminds him that the UN delegate from Norway is owed a return call. That woman is tedious and persistent: she's given Mycroft her personal number on two separate occasions. While Mycroft is not particularly picky when it comes to sexual partners -- the human race is too generally disappointing for Mycroft to have high expectations of specific individuals -- the right gender is a firm requirement.

"Very well," Mycroft says, capitulating to Anthea's unstated threat. "I can reply to these emails from the airport."

Anthea looks up and smiles. "Last chance to change your mind on the Plus One."

"It would be bad manners to change my RSVP now." Mycroft scans his desk, looking at their current projects. He's unlikely to need physical copies of anything, but part of him wants to take a few folders with him, like the paperwork equivalent of a safety blanket. That urge tells him exactly how he feels about returning to London for a family event. "And as your employer, I think it might be somewhat unethical to order you to attend a social function with me. Probably grounds for a harassment case."

"It's happened before," Anthea says, so blandly helpful that even Mycroft can't read her. She really is a marvel.

"I'm sure that ended well for your previous employer," Mycroft says sarcastically.

"He was a little embarrassed when I went home with the best man. But groomsmen and formal wear. It's a weakness of mine."

Mycroft can imagine it easily. She wouldn't have been subtle. She would have made sure he was personally humiliated. "I assume you changed employment shortly after that?"

"I needed a new challenge," Anthea says calmly. "But if you wanted me to be on hand, or for me to arrange company for you..."

"No. My family wouldn't expect me to turn up with anyone. It would raise more questions than it would answer."

***

According to the Heathrow Airport website: "British Airways passengers can inform the airline of lost luggage at the Arrivals desk, which is situated in the baggage reclaim area." So after having his flight delayed in Geneva and waiting for an extra three hours to board, after waiting to be let off the plane in Heathrow, and then waiting for the bags to appear on the carousel, and then waiting for every other passenger to claim their bags while his refused to show, Mycroft lines up at the Arrivals desk.

By now, he should have checked into his hotel room and be sitting in a restaurant, finishing dinner. He should be calling Sherlock and his parents, and scheduling whatever is required the week before a wedding. Instead, he has to complete a lost baggage report describing the model, make and colour of his baggage. He has to give them the baggage tag receipt and contact number, and dutifully write down the tracking reference number. All while the mousy brunette behind the counter gives a polite smile and promises to do her best, and says, "We can't promise anything but most bags are returned within twenty-four hours. If they were lost at Heathrow Airport, I mean."

"And if they weren't put on the plane?"

She looks to the left, avoiding eye contact as she tries to lie convincingly. "That takes a little longer."

It's ten o'clock on a Wednesday night. The only clothes he has is the suit he travelled in. His carry-on luggage is full of wedding gifts: a crystal decanter for John and an antique microscope for Sherlock. (Sherlock will complain, will whine that "an electron microscope would be far more useful, Mycroft," but he knows his brother. Skulls and hunting knives and mementoes: he likes his brick-a-brac with history.)

As the taxi pulls into his hotel, Mycroft decides to order room service, sleep in his underwear, and fix this all tomorrow.

***

In the morning, he calls the concierge and explains the situation. By the time he finishes breakfast in bed, there's a knock at his door. He opens it in the complimentary robe, expecting a porter with a new shirt, underwear and the essential toiletries. Instead, it's his brother, Sherlock.

Physically, they don't share much in common besides height. There's a similarity in their narrow shoulders, and maybe in the grey-green of their eyes. But where Sherlock was always slim, Mycroft tended towards soft rolls of puppy fat. Where Sherlock is Byronic, all jet black curls and sharp cheekbones, lean face and soft generous lips, Mycroft's looks are less memorable. Round face, small chin, thin lips, and thinning brown hair. Not unattractive so much as average, blurring into unmemorable.

Intellectually, Sherlock is the closest he's ever come to an equal. Luckily, Mycroft's always found intelligence more useful and much greater leverage than good looks.

"You were supposed to call last night," Sherlock says, striding inside without an invitation.

"Delayed flight." Mycroft closes the door behind Sherlock. He pulls out the desk chair and sits down as Sherlock paces.

"Really? It wasn't a last minute crisis? A convenient excuse for not coming?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "That was a genuine international situation. Otherwise, I would have attended your engagement party."

"So you say."

"I'm here now."

Sherlock casts a disbelieving look at him, but he lets the matter drop. "You need to collect your morning suit from the tailors. I'm meeting with the caterers on Friday and florist on Monday. We drive to the venue on Tuesday morning and the wedding rehearsal will be in the afternoon. Wedding on Wednesday and everyone leaves on Thursday." It's an impressively detailed schedule until Sherlock frowns and says, "I feel like I've forgotten something."

"We have a week," Mycroft says, thinking invasions have been planned in less time. Surely one ceremony and party afterwards can't be too difficult.

"Only a week," Sherlock says seriously.

***

Despite Sherlock's fretting, it's quite easy to call the tailors and arrange an appointment for the afternoon. He calls his parents to let them know he's in London and his mother gushes about seeing the wedding venue with Sherlock yesterday, how beautiful it was, how stunning it will be in pictures. Mycroft makes the time to Google it and see for himself.

It's an impressively grand Georgian house, sitting in acres of gardens and only an hour from London. There are pictures of previous weddings, round tables covered with white tablecloths, chairs with white covers and big, ridiculous bows tied around their backs. There are brides and grooms pictured on winding staircases, on open sunny lawns, standing beneath brick archways or in front of tall windows. It is a nice background, and given the price, it would want to be.

That afternoon, he tries on his suit. It's disappointing. Not Sherlock's fashion choices -- a nice traditional black morning coat, charcoal grey trousers, a little unique whimsy in the pale lavender waistcoat and tie -- but in the fit. The waistcoat can be cinched tighter and the shirt won't be seen, but the jacket and trousers are inches too big around the waist.

For a moment, Mycroft wonders uncharitably if Sherlock's playing a joke on him. Mycroft had been a heavy child and squabbles between them had usually involved calling each other "fat" (Mycroft) and "stupid" (Sherlock). But they're adults now and Sherlock wouldn't be so petty as to risk ruining his own wedding photos.

He takes a grip on his trousers and walks out to the counter. There's a handsome man already being served but Mycroft can wait. He can wait quite happily when it allows him an opportunity to enjoy the view.

He takes a moment to appreciate the pleasing symmetry of the man's face, strong chin and fine nose, dark brown eyes and healthy tan. He's between forty and forty-two but wears it well: hair grey but appealingly thick, faint lines around his mouth and eyes that suggest a face made for smiling.

Mycroft glances down. No pets, no signs of children. He's not wearing a wedding ring but there's still a faint tan line where one sat for years. Distributes his weight evenly, keeps his knees unlocked: used to standing for long hours at a time. That slight hunch in the shoulders from hours sitting at a desk.

The sales assistant scurries off to get something, and the man turns, catching Mycroft staring. He smiles, all white teeth and mischievous twinkle, and says, "Hey."

Essex, if Mycroft's not mistaken, but living in London for at least the past six years. "Hello."

The man glances down at Mycroft's hand at his waist, holding the loose fabric up. "Lost a bit of weight?"

"Wrong measurements," Mycroft replies sharply, as the assistant returns with a morning coat and then scurries away for something else. The coat is black with violet waistcoat and matching tie. The chances of two weddings using that colour scheme at the same tailor are incredibly small. Mycroft takes another glance. Too physically fit to be Mike Stamford, and there's no hint of parade rest in the posture, no military bearing, so it can't be James Sholto. "Greg Lestrade?"

That's met with a blink that quickly morphs into suspicious confusion. "Sorry, have we met?"

"No," Mycroft says and Greg looks somewhat relieved. "Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock's brother."

Greg lets out a startled laugh. It suits him well. "Guess the deduction thing runs in the family."

The assistant returns with trousers and then it's Greg's turn in the changing room.

What follows is one of those annoying conversations where Mycroft is right, and yet he still has to argue for ten minutes before it's acknowledged. "Check the original email," he says, forcing a paltry smile. "You will find my assistant said an 86cm waist, not 96cm."

It takes a ridiculous waste of time for the assistant to check, and then apologise, and then promise to have it fixed if Mycroft could only be patient and wait for the tailor to finish his current appointment.

He finds himself sitting outside a dressing room, wondering how such a large oversight could have been made by half-decent tailors.

He might change his mind slightly when Greg walks out of the dressing room. The morning coat hugs the broad expanse of his shoulders, the coat and waistcoat draw together in a V, creating the impression of a narrow waist.

Mycroft is well aware of how much a good suit can hide. From the impressed glances Greg keeps sneaking at the mirror, a bespoke suit is a rarity for him. "How does it feel?" Mycroft asks.

"For a suit with layers, surprisingly comfortable." Greg stretches his arms out, demonstrating the freedom of movement. "Do you know when that assistant will be back?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "He'll return eventually."

"Just figured I should ask," Greg says, holding out the loose violet tie in one hand. "Fancy suit, fancy waistcoat. I figure there's a fancy knot for the tie, too."

"Windsor," Mycroft replies. Greg only raises an eyebrow. "How do you normally knot your ties?"

"I tie them." Greg frowns at the scrap of violet silk, the faint houndstooth pattern catching the light. "I know how you tie them, but I don't know what it's called."

"Show me," Mycroft says and Greg nods. He starts to flip up his collar, and Mycroft says, "No," and Greg freezes.

"What?"

"Never flip up a collar. You'll cause creases," Mycroft says, wishing he didn't sound quite so... Schoolmarm-ish. "Just tie it loosely and slide the knot up."

Greg's look is considering. "You wear a lot of suits, don't you?"

It's a rhetorical question so Mycroft doesn't reply. Instead, he sits and watches Greg's fingers on the tie. It's done often enough to be familiar, but rarely enough that without the aid of a mirror, the knot lies skewed and uneven on his collar.

"That's a Half Windsor. A Windsor requires two extra loops at the start." Mycroft pulls his own tie loose and demonstrates.

Greg still looks confused. "I'm going to need to practice that in front of a mirror."

"Very well," Mycroft says, standing and remembering at the last minute to hold onto his loose trousers lest they don't rise with him. "The dressing room mirror should suffice."

The dressing room is a reasonable size, allowing space for a tailor to take measurements. The mirror is less generous, so they're forced to stand close while Greg attempts and fails to recreate Mycroft's tie.

"To the left," Mycroft says but Greg pulls to the right. "This is not difficult."

"Says the guy who can do this by rote," Greg replies but there's hardly any sting to it. "Look, show me again. Slower."

"Even I can't do a tie one-handed."

In the mirror, Greg grins. "This might seem forward from a virtual stranger, but do you want me to hold your trousers up?"

Mycroft looks to the left corner of the ceiling and wills himself not to be embarrassed. Even if he is standing here in a baggy, ill-fitting suit while a very attractive man talks about his _trousers_.

"That would solve the problem," Mycroft agrees. When he looks in the mirror, there is the slightest betraying flush to his cheeks. Unlikely anyone else would notice. He steps up behind Greg, looking over his shoulder and Greg's left hand reaches back to replace Mycroft's necessary grip on his trousers. He doesn't grope or do anything disrespectful, but Mycroft still feels like a fool.

"Around the neck, fold over and then under," Mycroft says, demonstrating slowly. "Then right to left and over again. The remaining steps are the same."

"Show me again?" Greg asks softly.

Mycroft slides the knot apart and starts again. He slides the silk over and under, the knot thankfully loose enough that his fingers aren't brushing Greg's skin with every loop.

From the way Greg swallows, he might be imagining the very same thing.

"Really quite simple," Mycroft says, finishing the knot.

In the mirror, Greg smiles warmly. "Maybe one more time?"

There's a clatter behind them, and Greg turns, hands up as Sherlock strides into the dressing room. Mycroft can feel the sudden breeze around his knees but he refuses to glance down at his suddenly exposed underwear.

"You could knock, little brother."

"Bridesmaids aren't supposed to sleep with groomsmen until after the wedding," Sherlock snipes back. "Did you give the tailor the wrong measurements?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft replies. "It was their transposition error."

"If you'd come over for the engagement party, you would have been fitted like the rest of us."

***

Friday comes and goes with very little wedding fuss. Sherlock reports a successful meeting with the caterers. "I would have invited you if it was the cake tasting," Sherlock says flippantly, "but that was weeks ago."

It makes Mycroft feel twelve years old again: pudgy and awkward. He doesn't let it show. "What flavour did you decide on?"

"For the cake? Raspberry with a white chocolate ganache."

Sherlock follows that with a five-minute lecture on Marzipan's various failings despite its superior appearance, and Mycroft regrets showing any scrap of interest.

***

Mycroft is fond of London, but his favourite spot is the grass outside Westminster Abbey. He remembers visiting London as a child, sitting on the grass with his parents and staring up at the steeple. The ornate stonework stretched into the blue sky and the sunshine was warm. His parents sat on either side of him and he remembers feeling safe and happy, with the world suddenly full of wonders.

They'd visited many times over the following years, but that feeling of amazement and warm satisfaction had been harder to find with Sherlock running around the grass or constantly asking questions.

It's a warm day and he has time to fill, so Mycroft finds himself wandering past Westminster Abbey, pausing to look up. He's almost tempted to sit down on the grass, to lean back and really see it.

Then someone calls his name. He turns to see Greg Lestrade walking towards him, waving a hand. He's wearing dark blue jeans, a thin olive green T-shirt and dark sunglasses; he's just as handsome as Mycroft remembers.

This is the third day Mycroft's worn this suit, thanks to his luggage being somewhere in South America. If he was home in Geneva, he would be dressed neatly, his suit would be stylish and expensive, and he'd feel confident. And a man as handsome as Greg still wouldn't look twice at him.

Worrying about his clothes seems petty, honestly.

"Thought it was you," Greg says with an easy smile as he steps closer. "What madcap wedding assignment has Sherlock sent you on?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "I've been given a reprieve. Sherlock's working on a case."

"For Donaldson, I think."

"He didn't tell me the particulars." Sherlock had said he didn't want Mycroft's interference to ruin the case. "Since my weekend is unexpectedly free, I thought some sightseeing would be nice."

"Have you had lunch? Because if not, we could find a restaurant." Greg shrugs even as he suggests it, equal parts embarrassment and feigned confidence. "If you're at a loose end, I mean."

"I haven't had lunch."

Greg's smile is bright and sudden. "In that case, how do you feel about Brazilian?"

***

Greg is charming. Not in the practised, charismatic way that frequently goes hand in hand with political ambitions, but in a humble, earnest way. He talks about his work and doesn't try to frame every case as a stage for how clever and impressive he is (unlike Sherlock). When he asks Mycroft questions, he listens to the answers with interest. His smile is an easy thing, bright and fleeting, and for the first time in a very long while, Mycroft finds himself enjoying the conversation. He's not thinking about how much time it's taken or what he could have been doing instead. He's not angling for a political favour, for support here or insight into the next proposed agreement.

He hardly notices when lunch gets extended into drinks, when midday stretches into mid-afternoon and they're still talking.

Greg gets a text on his mobile and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Wow," he says when he sees the time on the screen. "I didn't mean to monopolise you for the whole day."

"I had nothing else to do," Mycroft says but that sounds unappreciative, as if this was the lesser of two evils rather than a singularly pleasant afternoon. "This was... Very nice."

"Nice?" Greg asks, face drawing tight in mock confusion. "I feel like I just got friend zoned, and I haven't made a move yet."

Mycroft blinks once, taking a split second to think. Sherlock would mock him for being so stunned by such an obvious social situation, but if Sherlock were here, the afternoon would have been far less pleasant. "Certainly not," Mycroft replies and Greg grins.

***

There's a gentle buzz of vibration in Mycroft's pocket. He fishes his phone out and unlocks the screen. He ignores Sherlock asking, "Do these look indigo to you? The colour should be darker," and checks his messages.

It's Greg. Greg who called yesterday and invited him out to dinner. (Italian, simple fare, not too pricey by London standards. A pleasant night and a very promising date.) Greg had been about to come up to Mycroft's hotel room to see the view when he'd been called into work, but he'd promised to text.

So far, the conversational missives have been simple:

'Hey, sorry I had 2 go.'

'I suppose murder waits for no man. Is all going well?'

'No worse thn usual. Maybe we can get 2gthr again?'

'Perhaps dinner tonight?'

And then the latest reply:

'maybe. Might have 2 work'

Followed swiftly by:

'I want 2 see u. How about we say 8 2nite and chance it?'

Mycroft's thumb hovers over his screen, considering his reply.

"If you are quite finished flirting like a teenage girl," Sherlock says directly over his shoulder, unashamedly reading Mycroft's screen, "I brought you here for your opinion."

Mycroft glances over at the purple irises, sitting next to violets and orchids. "The orchids have too much pink in the base colour. In sunlight, the other two will match better."

As Sherlock stalks off to harass the sales assistant, Mycroft types a reply: 'We shall chance it. After all, fortune favours the bold.'

***

Fortune, as it turns out, does not favour the bold. Mycroft gets a text at half past seven saying that Greg can't make it.

It feels strangely right. Some sort of karmic balance that the day his luggage shows up -- when he can dress nicely for dinner with a handsome man -- is the same day said dinner gets cancelled. The coincidence of his luggage's reappearance had felt too good to be true.

So Mycroft replies that he understands. Sometimes responsibilities are awkwardly timed but cannot be avoided.

'Least I'll see u 2mrrw' is Greg's response. Mycroft is torn between wanting to cringe at the horrendous spelling and the rest of him, well... At least there's no one around to see him grinning like a fool.

'I'll look forward to it.'

***

They drive to the venue on Tuesday morning. When Sherlock said he was borrowing his landlady's car, Mycroft had pictured a small hatchback, something practical for the city, at least a decade old. He hadn't imagined a scarlet Lamborghini, sleek and low to the ground.

The space in the backseat was pitiful but thankfully John had volunteered to sit back there. After ten minutes of Sherlock's driving, Mycroft suspects John had ulterior motives when he climbed in the back.

Sherlock favours lightning fast gear shifts and sudden lane changes. It's a miracle that the drivers around them are too stunned to even blare a horn at them.

"Do try to get us there without causing a collision," Mycroft says, resisting the urge to claw his fingers into the passenger door.

"There is no point driving a car capable of such quick responses," Sherlock says, shifting down a gear and changing lanes seconds before hitting the vehicle in front of them, "if you're not going to use them."

"It's amazing that you haven't lost your licence."

"That presumes," Sherlock says, accelerating in the sudden pocket of space available, "that I have a licence."

"What?" In the backseat, John looks up. His eyes are a little wide but, otherwise, there's no sign of terror. "Are you driving without a licence right now?"

"The skill of driving is hardly dependent upon a licence," Sherlock replies. Technically, Mycroft has to admit that's true: there are many licenced drivers who lack the skill.

"It is if you're doing it legally."

"Legalities are boring, John."

In the mirror, John sets his jaw. "Pull over. You are not breaking the speed limit and driving without a licence. You are not getting arrested the day before we're married. Pull over."

"May I remind you that yours is expired?" Sherlock asks, changing lanes and slowing slightly. "That's why we agreed that I'd drive."

"You didn't mention you don't have a licence either. At least I once passed the test."

As a rule, Mycroft doesn't drive. He gets driven. However, he's always seen the value in being prepared. "I have an international drivers licence."

"That's sorted then. Pull over, Sherlock, and let Mycroft drive."

"Have you seen the way Mycroft drives? That's a travesty in a car like this," Sherlock says, but he pulls over anyway. "And when was the last time Mycroft drove himself anywhere?"

"Are you really going to argue that driving is a skill that requires constant practice?" Mycroft asks archly as the car stops.

***

Unlike his brother, Mycroft obeys the speed limits and uses his indicators to allow other drivers ample warning before changing lanes. He does not attempt to challenge the acceleration rate of the car or its power steering.

"You drive like a little old lady," Sherlock mutters beside him. "This car is owned by a little old lady and even she doesn't drive like this."

"Yeah, I've been in the car with Mrs Hudson," John says from the back. "That's not the best role model for safe driving."

Sherlock sighs, rolling his head to the side to look back at John. "We're never going to get there at this rate. Never."

"We're five minutes away," Mycroft says wearily. "Stop being so melodramatic."

"Stop driving like a snail."

Mycroft is capable of being the bigger man. He is capable of not biting back, of taking a deep breath and gritting his teeth as he takes the exit.

After a few turns, they find a long, winding driveway, dappled in shade from tall elm trees growing on either side. At the end of the driveway, the trees clear to reveal the house proper.

It's a big, beautiful Georgian house standing proudly over lush, green gardens. It looks like it belongs in some grand fairy tale, some epic romance from centuries gone by. It is utterly perfect for a wedding.

"If you've quite finished standing there gawking," Sherlock says snidely.

Perfect for a wedding, Mycroft amends, and utterly wasted on Sherlock. He steps away from the parked car and slams the car door behind him.

John suddenly swears, high and loud enough to suggest unexpected pain. Mycroft doesn't need to turn around to assume John was reaching into the car as Mycroft swung the door closed.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and wishes very earnestly for the ground to swallow him whole.

Sherlock's there in a swirl of dark coat, fingers closing around John's wrist, turning his hand over. Fussing, in other words. "Can you feel your fingertips? Can you move all of your fingers?"

"It's okay," John says, voice still a bit tight. "Hell of a bruise but nothing feels broken."

"There could be a fracture. Metacarpals and phalanges are notoriously fragile bones."

Sherlock sounds like he's about to panic, but John sounds calmly confident. "Full range of movement, no sign of a fracture. Ice it and elevate it, and I'll have a x-ray if the swelling gets worse."

"Fine motor skills are extremely important, and you're a doctor--" Now Sherlock is actually panicking, words getting faster, and Mycroft doesn't know what to say. He can't fix it.

The worst part of being Sherlock's older brother is that Mycroft is so useless at it. Any other person, any other situation, Mycroft could identify what success looks like and arrange events accordingly. But Sherlock never aligns to expectations, and if Mycroft can guess what's needed, Sherlock tends to begrudge any attempt made to deliver it.

But John puts his good hand over Sherlock's fluttering fingers and holds him still. "I'm a GP, not a surgeon, and this is a bruise. Now help me find some ice."

Mycroft watches them walk up to the house, heading for the side-door that's closest to the kitchen, judging by the heavy wear on the gravel path. He starts to unpack the car. Carefully.

***

The privacy of renting the entire estate might be wonderful, but Mycroft would trade it for a concierge desk and a porter or two. Since there are no staff here, he has to carry their luggage across the grounds and up a magnificent flight of stairs to the bridal suite. Then he has to trek all the way back for his own luggage. And then back again for their suits.

After climbing those stairs for the third time, the grand sprawling staircase has started to feel like an endurance test. He's sweaty and red in the face, puffing for breath when his phone chimes.

'U & Sherlock at the venue? Think I got lost'

'Yes, we're here. Look for the red Lamborghini. We're inside.'

Mycroft runs a hand through his hair and climbs down those ridiculous stairs again. He opens the large front door just in time to see Greg step up to the landing. He's carrying a worn duffle bag and a suit hanger hooked over one shoulder.

Greg smiles brightly and pulls off his sunglasses. "Glad I got the right place. I know Sherlock has a flair for the dramatic but this is a lot, even by his standards."

"He apparently solved a case for the family that owns it," Mycroft replies, hoping that the sweat cooling on his brow isn't visible. "Very fortunate timing."

"Fortunate, huh?"

There is a lovely touch of cynicism to Greg's voice; clearly, he knows Sherlock's tendency to orchestrate desired outcomes. In some ways, Mycroft and his brother are very similar.

"Go upstairs, your room is second on the left." Mycroft doesn't say that Greg's room is two doors down from his. He doesn't want to appear to have purposely memorised that fact. "Room assignments are listed in the corridor."

"Okay. I'll unpack this stuff and then come down. Where's everyone else?"

"John and Sherlock are in the kitchen, getting ice."

Greg looks surprised. "For drinks?"

"For John's hand. It got caught in the car door," Mycroft says judiciously.

***

When Mycroft peers into the kitchen, John is sitting on the counter, holding an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. Sherlock has the kettle on and is placing tea bags into mugs.

"I should have looked before I closed the door," Mycroft says apologetically.

John shrugs. "Accidents happen."

"Not to Mycroft," Sherlock mutters. "His accidents are usually contrived."

"Not in this case," Mycroft replies. "If I'd intended to harm John, I would have found a way to do it where I wasn't so obviously at fault."

"Well, that's reassuring," John says sarcastically. He removes the ice pack and holds his hand up for Mycroft to see. It's swollen along the palm and the back of his hand, the colour already darkening in inch-wide strips on either side of his hand, but he flexes each of his fingers in turn. The knuckles themselves don't look swollen or out of alignment. Probability suggests it isn't a fracture.

"No x-ray needed," John says simply, holding the ice to his hand again.

It is quite remarkable that he doesn't hold any ill-will towards Mycroft. Then again, perhaps Sherlock is holding enough for the both of them. The glare he gives Mycroft could strip paint. "The other guests arrive at three and we're walking through the rehearsal at four."

It's clearly a dismissal. "Greg Lestrade is here. He knows you're in the kitchen. If you'll excuse me, I have some emails I need to catch up on."

***

Much as discretion is the better part of valour, sometimes running away and hiding is the best way of dealing with family upsets. After all, that was why Mycroft moved to Geneva. He had reached his limit on midnight phone calls from a manically high Sherlock and evenings spent tracking through slums to find Sherlock insensate with a worrying list tucked into his pocket. He had bargained, threatened, cajoled and begged, and Sherlock still indulged. In the end, Mycroft washed his hands of the situation and placed nearly a thousand kilometres between them.

It had been self-preservation.

Mycroft finds a small sofa tucked away in an upstairs corridor. He brings his laptop and phone, then calls Anthea for any vital updates. There are no calamities, nothing Anthea couldn't handle on her own. Since Mycroft has time available, he starts answering emails.

The window looks out over the front of the house. He sees cars start pulling up just after two. A deep blue Honda Civic arrives, driven by a young woman: around thirty, medium brown hair, posture suggests hours standing and working at benches slightly too tall for her. Must be Molly Hooper. The telltale sign is the purple dress carefully carried in a clear dry cleaner bag.

Mycroft watches the groomsmen arrive: James Sholto driving cautiously in an old Ford, Mike Stamford in shiny new Citroën. His parents in the hideous brown station wagon that they claim is a practical colour.

At three thirty, two old women climb out of a gleaming silver 4x4. One is Mrs Hudson and the other must be her sister.

Still, Mycroft waits until the last few minutes before he packs up his laptop, places it back in his room and goes downstairs to face the crowd.

***

The rehearsal goes well enough. The celebrant is a blonde woman in her late forties who owes Sherlock a debt of gratitude for finding her prize poodle. His brother is a great example of how well a barter economy can work.

They outline the day, the self-service breakfast that will be laid out in the dining room off the kitchens. The ceremony will be at eleven, held in the morning room, then everyone moves to the ballroom for the reception. They go through the ceremony, who stands where and who says what.

John and Sherlock stand with the celebrant, framed by two tall windows overlooking the front gardens. As awkward as this day has been, it's all worth it to see Sherlock smile at John, his whole face lit up with shared joy. To see him laugh when John fumbles a vow. To see his little brother happy and besotted and embracing that wonder wholeheartedly.

If it makes Mycroft a little misty-eyed, no one's the wiser.

***

After the rehearsal, Sherlock rounds everyone up and presses them into service. He wants the reception decorations finalised tonight. There are floral arrangements to spread over round tables, ridiculous organza bows to tie around chairs and place names to be set out. Sherlock holds a small mountain of sandwiches hostage until everyone complies.

Sherlock oversees the flowers with Mummy and Mrs Hudson. John, Greg and Molly are tying strips of indigo organza over the white chair covers.

Mycroft agrees to allocate seating arrangements. It's an easy task to memorise the seating chart and allocate the correct names. It doesn't take too long.

"If you're finished," Greg calls out when Mycroft's standing back to admire the industrious activity around him, "you could give us a hand."

Greg has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and loosened the collar buttons. Mycroft finds himself noticing that Greg's tan extends past his collarbones.

"I shouldn't have to do more work simply because I was more efficient at completing my task."

"Quicker we finish, quicker we all get to eat." Greg waves a handful of organza at him. "Come on, we'll work in pairs and get it done faster."

Between them, they work out a system. Hold the ends and then fold as if completing a bowtie. It's easier with two pairs of hands and the results are a lot more consistent, especially when Molly and John follow their example.

"Is this a trend with you?" Greg asks with a cheeky smile. "Teaching people to tie knots?"

"Only when it comes to you. Have you found your inability to knot a bowtie has held you back in life?"

"Oh, terribly," Greg replies, holding the fabric out at arm's length to tighten the bow. "Nothing the Met values more than a neat bowtie."

***

Dinner is a jovial affair. There's a strange comradeship formed under Sherlock's exacting oversight, and the conversation is lively over roast beef or turkey sandwiches. The free flowing wine might contribute some good will as well.

Mycroft does his best to include the group in any comments, to direct questions to Molly and Mrs Hudson, but his attention keeps coming back to Greg. He looks up and realises they've been talking between themselves -- not about anything especially private, but childhood stories and terrible colleagues and favourite holidays. The third time it happens, when he suddenly notices that he's been staring at Greg and leaning closer, he glances around to find Molly and Mrs Hudson have migrated to the other end of the table.

"I think they got sick of being ignored," Greg says but he doesn't sound apologetic. He makes it sound like a shared joke, a secret mischief between them.

"I'm usually known for my precise social etiquette."

Greg reaches for the wine bottle, then pours himself another half glass of white. "Are you saying it's my bad influence?"

"It's certainly your fault," Mycroft replies, lifting his own glass closer for a refill.

"I haven't been a bad influence on anyone in a long time."

"Does that mean I'm easily influenced, or your current friends are already corrupted?"

Greg smiles slowly, all bright teeth against that tan. "Maybe you have a lot of virtue?"

"I've never been called virtuous," Mycroft replies smoothly. "A lot of things, but not virtuous."

"What sort of things?" Greg asks, dropping his voice and leaning in.

Mycroft gets a sudden whiff of his aftershave -- sandalwood, citrus and pine. A hint of cloves and apples. Hugo by Hugo Boss. For a moment, he imagines burying his face against Greg's neck and just breathing him in.

Mycroft has to swallow before he can reply. "Things I couldn't possibly repeat in polite company."

"Maybe," Greg says, glancing at the other end of the table, "we should find somewhere less crowded so you can tell me."

Mycroft can't imagine anything he'd like to do more. "That sounds best, but..."

"But?" Greg prompts eagerly.

"But I should say goodnight to Sherlock first." Which would be easy if Sherlock had stayed beside John at the other end of the table, but his little brother is nowhere to be seen. "Wherever he's got to. Perhaps I could meet you upstairs?"

Greg nods, grinning. "Second door to the left."

"I remember."

***

He finds Sherlock in the ballroom, staring at six long white candles and watching them burn.

Mycroft pauses in the doorway, wine glass in hand. "Sherlock?"

"I'm trying to decide how many candles would be best on each table," Sherlock says, not looking around. "Go enjoy wasting your time with Lestrade."

"I'm not wasting my time." Mycroft knows better than to try justifying his love life to his younger brother. Sherlock is never interested in anyone, except for the occasional few he falls for within minutes of seeing them. He was head over heels for Irene Adler, as badly as that ended. He took a flat with John within days of meeting him. Sherlock considers dating a waste of time; he doesn't see how enjoyable it can be to get to know someone, that chemical thrill of attraction before inevitable disappointment.

"You live in Geneva. He works in London. How long do you think a long distance relationship will last?"

Mycroft walks into the room, wishing this could be easier. Nothing about Sherlock has ever been easy. "I could fly back and see him."

"The last time you flew back was Christmas. The time before that was last Christmas." The look Sherlock gives him is sharp and pitying. "Can you really see yourself making the effort?"

"He is very attractive." He also wishes that didn't sound quite so wistful. "And there's nothing wrong with a short dalliance."

There's a noise behind them, a sudden bark of laughter carrying along the landing, and Mycroft jerks in surprise. He twists around to face the source of the noise and knocks over a candle and the remaining wine in his glass.

There is a silent, shocked moment when Mycroft thinks how flammable alcohol is and then he watches in horror as the tablecloth catches fire. There's a sudden burst of flame as the wine soaked section burns. And Sherlock is yelling and grabbing at the loose ends of the tablecloth to smother it but it's too late. There's a crack as the sprinkler above their head descends and starts spraying water.

A second sprinkler starts and then the fire alarm blares. It all happens in under a minute but for Mycroft, frozen in shock and watching the destruction around them, it all happens in horrifying slow motion. He can see the shock on Sherlock's face twisting into fury.

The fierce rage as he shouts, "My wedding is ruined and my marriage is going to fail. And it’s all your fault!"

"In all fairness--" Mycroft says weakly, knowing this disaster is beyond his worst fears.

"If I knew you were going to destroy everything," Sherlock hisses, water running down his face and flattening his dark hair against his head, "I wouldn't have invited you at all!"

That's when they're interrupted by yelling from the hallway and the distant sound of sirens.

***

While John deals with the firemen and Greg stands beside him looking responsible and reasonable, Sherlock disappears upstairs to change. Mycroft doesn't want to face Sherlock, so he asks John to relay his sincere apologies.

It's somewhat cowardly and he knows it. By the look John gives him, John knows it too.

"I know it was an accident," John says, no nonsense and not particularly kind about it, "but he's disappointed and angry and it's late. Let him be until morning."

It's clearly an order. Mycroft has been relegated to something Sherlock should be protected from, rather than a source of protection. It is galling but it's probably deserved. "Very well," Mycroft agrees and John gives him a military-style sharp nod and then starts ushering people inside.

"Come on, you," Greg says, stepping up beside him. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill."

For a moment, Mycroft looks at him: his warm, dark eyes and strong jawline, the concerned pull of his mouth. If he hadn't been so taken by a good looking man paying attention to him, if he hadn't spent the night drinking and flirting, this probably wouldn't have happened. If he hadn't acted like some hormone-fuelled teenager with a crush. If he hadn't let himself be Mycroft Holmes the person, and had remembered he was here as Mycroft Holmes, source of family disappointment, he might have been more guarded, more careful. He might not have ruined everything Sherlock wanted.

Usually, he is not clumsy or smitten. Usually, he identifies what he wants and makes the world provide it. He is ruthless and precise, and above all else, organised. He will not be bested by a few bunches of soggy flowers and a ridiculous number of organza bows.

"First, a change of clothes," Mycroft says, walking inside. "Then we find a way to salvage this."

***

He showers and changes into dry trousers and a sweater. Something he can move furniture in if required.

He calls Anthea and apologises for the lateness of the call. Then he asks her to find flower markets with violets and irises, within 30km of their location, and to email their opening hours and addresses.

He opens his bedroom door to find Greg standing outside. Greg shrugs. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Yes," Mycroft replies, "manual labour."

***

First, Mycroft explores the house to evaluate his options. He finds the utility room with an industrial-sized dryer hidden off a basement corridor. There's a room in the basement that might be large enough, but Sherlock's already set the space up as a dance floor with a DJ booth in the corner. Given how much Sherlock enjoys dancing and how rarely he indulges, that is not an acceptable option. There's another reception room but it's too small for the number of attendees.

Then Mycroft finds the conservatory. It's long and skinny, but it would fit the tables. It's at the side of the house, so there won't be a sunset view as the night ends, but the tall glass windows look over lawns and a few distant trees. The acoustics aren't ideal but if the speakers stand, the speeches should be heard. It won't be perfect but it will be serviceable.

It will be better than the smell of wet woollen carpet.

When he asks for Greg's opinion, Greg shrugs and says, "It's pretty?"

They strip the wet tablecloths and chair covers. Luckily a few tables escaped the deluge, so they won't have to tie every single bow again. Mycroft throws as many chair covers as he can fit into the dryer, and starts the huge machine up. The organza gets draped over every visible radiator, shimmering purple hanging from most walls.

Then it's just a case of moving ten heavy tables and eighty chairs across a very large house. They have to turn them to get through doorways and there's a lot of "left, no, turn it to your left!" and "clockwise! Turn clockwise!" hissed as they go. Mycroft has never been a brawny type and he finds himself struggling under the weight. Gritting his teeth and cursing everything.

"Is that Dutch?" Greg asks when Mycroft knocks his shin on a table leg.

"It is a very satisfying language for swearing," Mycroft snarls. He adds a few more obscene phrases for good measure.

"Know a lot of foreign cursing?"

"Choose a language," Mycroft offers, shifting the weight in his hands and trying to get a better grip.

"Russian," Greg says, and Mycroft complies. "Okay, Greek."

That one's very easy and possibly a phrase Greg recognises, judging by the way his brows shoot up.

"Chinese," Greg suggests, walking backwards with the table through the wide conservatory doors.

"Cantonese or Mandarin?" Mycroft asks and then demonstrates in both.

***

While moving the third table, they run into James Sholto on the stairs. The man has hidden in his room all day and one glance tells Mycroft why. He's self-conscious about the burn scars covering one side of his face. It's clear in the strict army posture, hands clasped to his sides even while wearing a tracksuit and a T-shirt.

"Sorry if we woke you," Greg says in a friendly tone, clearly focusing on the man's eyes and not letting himself stare.

Sholto shakes his head, but there's a pause before he speaks. "I don't sleep much."

PTSD, Mycroft thinks. Survivors' guilt and possible agoraphobia. Probably responds well to direct orders. Mycroft makes his tone sharp and precise. "Major, since you're awake, would you assist Greg with these tables?"

Sholto gives a quick nod and says, "Yes," as if it was a direct command.

It gives Mycroft time to see to the dryer, putting on the next load of chair covers. He carries the dry ones into the conservatory and then starts moving chairs while Greg and James move the tables.

Mycroft tries not to notice that they lift the tables much higher than Mycroft could manage. He does notice the sweat dampening Greg's shirt and the muscles of his shoulders and arms as he turns the tables to fit through doorways.

Mycroft drags his attention away reluctantly. He has eighty chairs to move, sixty that need covers and bows, and he doesn't have infinite time to achieve it.

***

It's 2am by the time they've moved all of the tables and chairs. Mycroft bids them both goodnight and goes to the utility room, emptying and reloading the dryer. Given the amount of damp fabric to be dried and the dryer capacity, it's going to be another few hours.

Mycroft pulls out his phone and emails Anthea to arrange emergency delivery of flowers. And new cardstock for the nameplates. He also emails the caterer to make sure they know where to serve the food now.

He arranges white fabric covers on a dozen chairs and ties organza bows until he could do it in his sleep. He sits in the utility room and closes his eyes, waiting for the beep of the dryer to wake him up.

Each time he wakes it's a little harder to get moving, to put the next load in the dryer and fix the next set of chairs.

By 4am he gives up on sleep and makes himself tea instead. By 5am, he has two loads of tablecloths to go, every chair neatly tied and a text from Anthea confirming flower delivery in an hour.

It gives him time to get the vases ready and half of the tables covered. The flowers arrive in buckets of water, more than he needed but the right colour. There are dark violets and irises, glossy green leaves for the background, and an extra bucket of orchids, a brighter purple with petals edged in fuschia. Mycroft's always been fond of orchids, demanding hothouse flowers that they are. He has to adjust Sherlock's arrangement to allow for the extra flowers, but it works better in the brighter space of this room.

He spreads out the last of the tablecloths and centrepieces. He's wondering if there's any way he could raise the head table when there's another delivery. Thick cards for the place cards and a black fountain pen to write them.

Now he's glad he memorised the place settings.

***

Greg finds him just after seven, sitting at the kitchen counter, writing out names in baroque script.

"Want a cuppa?" Greg asks blearily, stifling a yawn. He looks tired, worn and still half asleep. "Tea, coffee?"

"Tea, please." It won't be enough to keep him awake for long but he's nearly done. Two tables are missing place cards, but the rest are done. Once he gets this finished, he's going to bed. A nap has become essential.

Just the thought of sleep makes him yawn.

"Not enough sleep, huh?" Greg hands him a mug of tea -- sugar and milk, clearly made the way Greg drinks it -- and stands beside him as he drinks.

Probably to catch the mug if he should fumble it, Mycroft thinks uncharitably. It would be typical for this week.

Greg nods at the cards. "You're pretty good at that."

"Calligraphy? Hardly one of my strengths."

"No, I meant," Greg shrugs and swallows another mouthful of tea, "fixing things. Getting stuff sorted."

"It's what I do, professionally speaking. I'm the person you call when things need to go ahead and you don't know how to fix them." Where 'things' means anything from finalising an embassy invitation list to signing a disarmament agreement. "For a nominal fee, of course."

Greg grins. "Yeah? How much is Sherlock paying?"

"We're considering this one a special case." Mycroft reaches for the last card, the very last in his meticulously counted stack, and carefully writes Sherlock's full name. "It's rare that I know what Sherlock wants, let alone how to give it to him."

He picks up the last few cards and walks over to the conservatory. Greg follows him, mug in hand. In the early morning light, the room is all white and purples and the green of the lawns beyond. There are overflowing bunches of flowers at each table, indigo irises and violets, and the bright pink-toned purple of orchids. Sunlight catches on the top panes of glass, and the whole room is bright and airy, perfectly suited to celebrating a new life together.

Greg smiles as he looks around the room. "Looks good. Can't wait to see Sherlock's reaction when he sees it."

"Sherlock's reactions have never been easy to anticipate." In all honesty, Mycroft doesn't know if Sherlock will be pleased or will still be angry enough to rescind Mycroft's invitation. Either way, he's done all he can to correct his mistakes. He arranges the last card with a sigh. "I'll tell him on my way to bed."

***

John opens the bedroom door. For all that Sherlock's embraced the trappings of a wedding, he clearly hasn't worried about spending the night apart beforehand. Mycroft tries not to notice the wild angles of John's short hair or the darkening bruise at the neck of his T-shirt; he desperately tries not to picture the precise sexual escapades that would cause both.

"Sherlock's asleep," John says firmly. He steps out and closes the door behind him. A protective gesture accompanying a protective lie, judging by the lack of Sherlock's snores.

"As I will soon be. Tell him I'll pay any cleaning costs incurred and that the reception's been moved to the conservatory."

"The conservatory?" John repeats carefully.

"I've emailed the caterers but make sure they're aware." Mycroft pauses to yawn. "I'll see you at the ceremony."

He walks away while John stands there and blinks.

***

Three hours of sleep is better than none but it still leaves Mycroft groaning his way into the shower. He sets the water to scalding and keeps it short. Luckily, he's used to wearing three piece suits so he dresses quickly in the morning coat and even has a few minutes to brush his hair.

When he comes downstairs, most of the guests aren't seated yet. He slips down the stairway, avoiding the crowds milling about and chattering.

He doesn't yelp when Sherlock leans out of an almost hidden alcove and grabs his arm, no matter what Sherlock may say. He might be a touch startled, but the sound he makes is not a yelp.

"You're supposed to be with the celebrant," Mycroft chides. He follows Sherlock into a small cupboard. It holds spare linens, he realises. It would have been good to know there were clean, dry tablecloths last night.

"I can be fashionably late."

"Not to your own wedding," Mycroft bites back. Sherlock doesn't rise to the bait; he doesn't squabble or glare. Clearly, Mycroft's been forgiven.

"John knows where I am. Everybody will be staring at me for the rest of the day. They can wait."

"If you didn't want them staring, planning a lavish wedding spectacle was misguided."

Sherlock does not, as a rule, look sheepish. Even when his choices lead to complete disasters, he never admits it. "I didn't plan a spectacle," he says as if a house this grand and a guest list this long could be anything else. "I wanted the perfect wedding."

"Semantics, brother mine." Mycroft brushes a speck of lint from the sleeve of his morning coat. "Very few things in life achieve perfection. What made you think marriage would be an exception to that rule?"

"Not marriage. John's marrying me, so there's no way that could be perfect. But a wedding, a single moment, a single day, that could be remembered as an ideal."

Even if the marriage doesn't last. Even if the whole idea is a mistake, something John regrets over time. Sherlock wanted this moment, this memory to be perfect. Suddenly, his brother's ridiculous demands about perfectly symmetrical bows and colour schemes make sense.

"There are orchids in the centrepieces," Mycroft says quietly. "Do you know why?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in response. "Because your assistant ordered emergency flowers and missed the specifics of the colour scheme."

"That's why they arrived. I didn't have to use them in the displays. I chose to."

"Why, then?"

"Because they might not fit the colour scheme perfectly, but they are intriguing and exquisite flowers. Beauty is not restricted to perfection."

Sherlock tilts his head, thinking. "This conversation is only due to cold feet," he declares.

"Obviously," Mycroft agrees, sharing the lie.

"It makes no sense to doubt John's commitment," Sherlock says, sounding certain again. "We're already living together."

"Anyone who lives with you and responds by wanting to continue until one of you dies of old age?" Mycroft asks, allowing himself a small smile. "They deserve to be committed. Hopefully to somewhere with padded cells and caring professionals."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Come on. You're delaying the ceremony."

***

Despite the fumbling at the rehearsal, John stands tall and proud, repeating his vows with certainty. It's Sherlock who says John's name and then has to clear his throat before he can continue.

They make a wonderful picture standing there in matching morning suits, pale gold ties and waistcoats. Where Sherlock is tall, dark and striking; John is on the smaller side of average, tow headed and approachable. John is dependable where Sherlock is thrill-seeking, considerate where Sherlock is unconstrained by other people's opinions. But when they look at each other, when they exchange rings and promises, it's clear how deeply they love each other for all their differences.

And for their similarities, Mycroft thinks as the celebrant tells them to kiss and they grin at each other. Where anyone else would opt for a chaste kiss on the lips, Sherlock wraps his arms around John and dips him, kissing with abandon and an unseemly amount of enthusiasm. Honestly.

***

After the ceremony, there are endless photos -- taken by another grateful client of Sherlock's -- and then speeches, food and drinks. Greg shares a few gently embarrassing stories of Sherlock, but his speech is sincere and generous. The major stands up, eyeing the crowd as if they were all carrying deadly weapons, and proposes a toast to the couple. John looks so proud of him he could burst.

Then Sherlock decides it's time for dancing, and half of the room empties to the dance floor downstairs.

All in all, a successful day, Mycroft thinks as he nurses a glass of champagne. He's basking in a quiet contentment with the world that comes from a combination of too little sleep and too much alcohol. Greg returns from the dance floor flushed and smiling, eyes glittering with promise. The morning coat is long abandoned, along with his tie. The collar buttons on his shirt are loose but the violet waistcoat remains.

Mycroft looks up at Greg, and hears himself say, "You are lovely."

"And you're tipsy," Greg replies, laughing as he leans against the table.

"My little brother got married today." Mycroft holds up his half-full glass in a mock toast. "I'm celebrating."

"All alone at the table?"

"I'm not alone. Molly's..." Mycroft looks around to check, but Molly and the young man she was talking to have left the table. "Well, she was here."

Greg stands up and holds out a hand. "Come on," he says and Mycroft allows himself to be led out of the room. He assumes Greg's heading outside to walk in the gardens but Greg stops at the main staircase and leans against the handrail.

"We keep getting interrupted." He tugs Mycroft closer, cupping the joint of Mycroft's shoulder in each palm. "So before work calls or someone else sets the place on fire..."

Greg pulls him closer but Mycroft's already drifting towards him, towards his mouth, towards the first kiss that should have happened days ago. It's soft and leisurely, warm lips pressing and sliding closer, sliding into a second kiss and a third until they're making out against the railing. Mycroft's hand in Greg's hair and Greg's arms around his back, holding tight, until there's no distance between their bodies. He chases the taste of oranges and caramel from Greg's mouth, scraping fingernails against Greg's scalp when he moans.

Greg's the one who pulls back. Who says, "We should," and then leans in for another quick kiss, "go upstairs?"

"Mmm," Mycroft says, pressing his lips to the corner of Greg's jaw. Moving up to just beneath his ear, pressing kisses to the thin skin and feeling Greg grip him tighter.

"Not to--" Greg says, breath shuddering out of him. "Just-- Less public."

It's the tiny hitch of Greg's hips that makes Mycroft shift back and get himself under control. "Upstairs, yes. Fourth door on the left."

"Second," Greg corrects, lips wet and shiny, eyes dark.

"My room has an ensuite."

"Your room, then," Greg agrees, lacing their fingers together and tugging Mycroft towards the stairs.

***

When Mycroft walks into his office the following Monday, Anthea actually looks away from her screen to greet him. "Welcome back, sir."

He shrugs off his coat and hangs it up. "Did everything go well in my absence?"

"Nothing burnt to the ground," Anthea says, her face an impenetrable mask of professionalism. Mycroft is very thankful she's on his side. "How was the wedding?"

"Quite wonderful, thanks in no small part to you."

It really had been. Despite everything, the night itself ended extremely well and the next morning allowed Mycroft to indulge in a long lie-in, a hot bath and a thoroughly indecent amount of breakfast. Admittedly, Greg had been more of a hindrance than a help when it came to the bath but Mycroft wasn't complaining.

"The bonus wasn't necessary," Anthea says. She doesn't offer to repay it and she knows that Mycroft wouldn't allow her to if she tried.

"It was deserved. Those flowers were crucial to the day's success." He turns his laptop on and waits for it to boot up. On a whim, he adds, "And you were quite right."

"About?"

"Groomsmen and formal wear." When Anthea looks up at him, eyebrow raised, he allows a small return smile. After John and Sherlock departed for the honeymoon (or sex holiday, as Sherlock kept calling it), Mycroft made arrangements to pay for the still wet carpets and then spent three days in London. He spent most of it naked on the Hyatt Regency's sheets, having an impromptu sex holiday of his own.

"I'm going to need you to clear my calendar next Friday afternoon," Mycroft says, "and book a flight to London, returning Sunday night."

Anthea taps a note into her tablet. "Is this going to be a regular travel arrangement?"

"Hopefully," Mycroft allows, although it's far from certain at this point.

"We have the revised WTO estimates. The main changes are on page nine." Anthea flicks through something on her screen, tapping quickly. A moment later, an email pops up in Mycroft's inbox. "I'll start keeping your Friday afternoons free."


End file.
